love. recovery. bad advice.

Beware the Sweet Angel from Heaven

In super early sobriety, when describing or talking about myself, I used every mean and hurtful name you can imagine – no experience or feeling or body part was spared from my wrath and self-battery. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Everyone said, “Listen to yourself. Would you ever call anyone those names?”. To which I replied, “Yes?”. Oh give me a break – not to their faces! I’ve come a long way – really, I have. My heart now bleeds for everyone, almost to distraction. But lately, in light of recent personal affairs, I am catching myself using such names as – damn it!!! damn it!!! damn it!!! damn it!!! (Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue). I am actually still talking about names I call myself (riiiiiight). So, starting today, I am going to try to replace such mean and hurtful names with “sweet angel from heaven”, including, and perhaps especially, when referring to myself.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been pondering what the difference is between a hopeless romantic and a psychotic. When you think about it, isn’t it tomato tomahto? Why is hearing and seeing only what I want to hear and see any different than hallucinating and hearing voices, in both cases, absolutely certain everything I’ve heard and seen and experienced is factual, despite evidence and logic to the contrary? I am trying to accept that fact that My Truth is not necessarily The Truth, and these truths may have little resemblance to each-other. In my little world, My Truth saw the relationship only as love songs and roses, then splat! But when the relationship ended, My Truth saw the relationship only as stab wounds and mind fucks – period. In sobriety, I’m learning (the hard way) that The Truth is probably somewhere in-between those extremes. He also has His Truth which justifies his behavior as a sweet angel from heaven. He’s not perfect. I’m not perfect. We together are a nightmare, so I really am trying to close the book on this. I heard everything I needed to hear yesterday – I get it, I get it. Like an innocent but bitchen babe surfing a gnarly wave of out-of-control emotions in an ocean of tears, which is a hell of a lot better than an ocean of booze (drama intended), I wipe out and get eaten by a shark. The end.

The End (cont’d): Speaking of hopeless romantics and mental illnesses, if you are looking for true love, beware the sweet angel from heaven who claims to be a “hopeless romantic”. In addition to taking your anti-depressants, you may also consider taking heed. It may behoove you to ask them up front to define their terms before you get swept away by thinking that your ideas of “hopeless romantic” jive. They very well may be polar opposites. You might swoon at their claim and be expecting a future of, yes, love songs and roses, but wind up inconsolable, alone with that dire obsession to drink – not because the anguish is too much to endure, but because you need the empty bottles to smash through their windows. I am TOTALLY kidding. (You’ll never be alone in AA).

My sweet sponsor is looking on the bright side. She said that this is good practice and that I am handling this well – staying on track with meetings, reaching out to other women, not drinking. This has happened to me before, you know. You don’t say! My sponsor asked me how I handled these situations in the past. Umm… I recall a scene back in ’01 (maybe?) where I burst into the dude’s house drunk and wailed uncontrollably. He calmly said something like, “what the hell?”. I turned around and left, walked home, wailing. I made a much bigger scene on my commute than in his house. I was very composed and mature this time. I didn’t go to his house, beat my chest, and wail like a Latin American soap opera star. Instead, I beat my chest and wailed like a Latin American soap opera star to my sponsor over the phone in the privacy of my (lonely lonely lonely) bedroom until 2:00 this morning. I’m actually kind of proud of myself. Amazing what sobriety does for one’s self control! I feel jilted and angry (and used, murderous, disgusted, and so on), but this time, only 1% of my crazy got off the leash. The other 99% I managed to keep in the kennel. Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog.